


It Ain't Over

by desert_rose31



Category: Breaking Bad, Breaking Bad & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desert_rose31/pseuds/desert_rose31
Summary: Set in the timeline of "Bullet Points", Mike finds Jesse struggling with the desire to end his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [panademonium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panademonium/gifts).



> I was inspired by this prompt and got a bit carried away. I hope I've done the idea some justice. Also, I really hope the prompt-er likes it. 
> 
> And just a warning for explicit suicidal ideation, acts of suicide, and self-harm present in this work. 
> 
> And a big thank you to Salon_Kitty for your editing, advice and support throughout.

_You’re on thin ice, you little shithead_. Mike’s words echoed in Jesse’s head and he grinned to himself. It was six in the evening and Jesse had been awake for about forty-five minutes. The monstrous speakers in his living room were thundering a droning beat throughout the ground floor of his house, which was unexpectedly empty as far as he could tell. He didn’t need to be in the lab and somehow, he’d managed to lose all his houseguests. These days, he couldn’t face the house when it was devoid of people and more so when it was so quiet it echoed. He needed the people and music to fill his head; it distracted him from flashes of blood in the hallway and the ghostly sound of a gunshot ricocheting in his ears. Now that the sun was setting, he was forcing himself to eat cold pizza as he stood in ragged shorts in his kitchen.

 

Suddenly, the music stopped and he looked around the room wide-eyed. The darkest circles and reddest rims made him look harried and wild. He put his slice down on the counter where it joined a pile of refuse and shuffled into his living room. He didn’t see anyone in there earlier, but he was hoping a formerly comatose partier had just awakened and turned off the music. Some sad case, all partied out, was usually responsible for stopping his tunes and it was aggravating. As he turned the corner to the living room, he could see the neon glow from his stereo cast across a sea of detritus. The room appeared just as he left it, which disappointed him. He spied more leftover pizza on the coffee table and, clearing himself a seat on the futon, he sat and grabbed a slice of the days old pizza. It tasted like cardboard, but he had long stopped caring. After a few bites, he felt he’d met the minimum requirement to stave off the catastrophic-level headache that continually creeped up the back of his neck. He threw it down and leaned his head against his hand.

 

All the booze and crystal, not to mention the random bumps of coke here and there, had left him with the slight tremor of an elderly infirm, but he did his best to cover it over with weed on top of more weed. And then there had been the night of MDMA…when was that, he thought, two days ago, three days ago? He couldn’t put the timeline together clearly in his head but he recalled that the taste of snorting that junk was always the worst out of everything that could end up dripping down the back of your throat. He grinned to himself, though, remembering how worthwhile it had been. He’d gone from a pleasant, bong-hit high while playing Mario Kart with the skater girl to naked and wrapped under the furriest blanket he owned with her. It felt so good to just lay with her that they didn’t attempt sex for hours. Eventually, they ended up fucking in the middle of the living room with more than just an audience from what he could recall. The most vivid memory he had was her face down as he pounded her, smoking a cigarette and kissing some guy he’d never seen before. He didn’t give a shit how weird it had got, it felt good and kept him firmly planted in the present.

 

The smile fell off his face as he realized he needed that level of oblivion again immediately. There was a full bag of crystal in the inside pocket of his leather jacket but he thought it would make him far too edgy if he railed it on his own. He’d kill for a few more lines of MDMA. He’d just take it, put on the Discovery channel and let his mind weave some meaning into his existence for a good six hours. He sat back against the futon and took in a deep breath, holding it without thinking and then letting out a loud sigh. His mood was plummeting quickly and he was starting to feel antsy, like he couldn’t bear this moment in time. It was part come-down from all the drugs, but just as equally the feelings of emptiness and self-loathing he’d been fighting since _it happened_. At once he sat forward and grabbed his head as though he was cushioning the bad thoughts and somehow making them hurt less. _You murdered him_. Mr. White’s visit from a few nights ago burst through to the fore of his mind. The man had tried, with little luck, to make him go over Gale’s death in minute detail. Jesse had humoured him at first, but when his mind refused to give up its secrets and Mr. White pushed him further, he gave into his anger instead and had Walt forcibly removed. Up until that point, he had so successfully avoided thinking about _it_. But, Mr. White had broken the barrier and now the thoughts were simmering near the surface. Gale’s last few words, the explosion of the bullet leaving the barrel, and the sound of his body hitting the floor - it all swirled together. His chest was getting tight and his breaths shorter. He remembered wanting to drop to the floor and help him, and denying the urge to call 911 in that split second his instincts took over and then how he had to fight himself to leave the apartment. Sorrow and shame filled him. _You took a man’s life_. He gasped and swore as an envoy of tears trickled down his cheeks. The torturous thoughts felt overwhelming and he wanted to smash his head against the table, thinking that would stop their onslaught. He started manically clearing everything from the table as though he were going to do it, but stopped abruptly and kicked the table away instead. He swore again and found himself scanning the room for anything that could distract him, and that’s when he saw it sitting on his shelf.

 

Somehow, one of his party guests happened upon his .38 and found it so uninteresting that it was dumped on his shelf in plain view. He stared at it for a long while and willed the sensation of pulling the trigger out of his head. It wasn’t the gun he used on Gale, that piece was long gone. This one was different, he reminded himself, this one was for my safety, my defense…only for me. He stood up slowly, and walked to the shelf. Picking up the .38, the cold metal felt like a jolt against his clammy hands. He stroked it a few times before bringing it back to the futon. He laid down on the futon and pushed up an old afghan to his armpits. He started playing with the gun, releasing the magazine and then slamming it back in. At once, he could see the perfect circle of a gunshot in Gale’s forehead, and then the embarrassing memory of fumbling with a gun in front of Walt pushed in.

 

Fucking Walt, he thought, I’m not such a joke with a gun now. He sighed as the truth of the situation expanded in front of himself. He sank his head back, screwing his eyes shut. He murdered Gale at Mr. White’s behest and now the man was rapt in the most deluded self-importance and paranoia he’d seen. Mr. White came to his house when it was filled with tweakers and miscreants, he saw the state of the house and the state of him, but more or less ignored everything. Jesse was now conflicted; he wanted some sort of attention from the man, some acknowledgement that he wasn’t alright, yet he was resigned to writing off their relationship entirely. He felt adrift now, like he was succumbing to the meaninglessness of existence, yet he secretly longed for an anchor. He needed a thread to hold to keep him moving forward. After surviving the incident at the lab with Victor, he had an initial surge of confidence. That day it was like he was a killer and a survivor; he was winning at this lethal game and he was elated. But, in realty the cost was too high for him. Watching the life be extinguished in person after person wasn’t numbing him to death, it was laying the groundwork for psychological torture. Sometimes he could just smell blood, smell the lab as Victor bled out over the floor. He’d open a drawer or a cupboard and suddenly it was like he was there, a vision in his mind and scent in his nose. Other times, he could see the dullness overtaking Gale’s eyes as he lay on the ground and he would feel the deepest remorse, remorse so painful and encompassing it felt like it was growing up into him from the ground and consuming him. A rush of immeasurable guilt burned into every part of his body as the thoughts piled on top of one another. _You took the light out of that man’s eyes. And Mr. White? He’ll want you to kill again. He’ll need you to kill again. And he doesn’t give a shit what it does to you_.

 

He tried to regain control of his thoughts, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Mr. White was so self-absorbed he could barely see past himself most days, and it stung Jesse when he reached out and got nothing in return. He usually didn’t dwell on their interactions, but that little voice in his head was insistent these days. _He has no time for you and your problems. He saw your pain and chose to let you suffer that night_. Asking Walt to go go-karting had been a desperate move, and he knew that, but he wished the man had agreed to go. If he had, Jesse knew he wouldn’t be in his present state, and nor would his house. It was easier to blame Walt for turning down his offer than it was to admit he was succumbing to his guilt and hopelessness.

 

 _He doesn’t care about you, he never has._ A flood of memories rushed into his head and that voice started hitting them out of the ballpark as supporting evidence. _That fuzzy sensation of him holding you in the crack house? He just felt sorry for you. You were a pathetic mess and he loathed having to be anywhere near you that day_. No, Jesse tried to fight back, that’s not how it was - he found me…he saved me. _He pitied you and he still does. He keeps you around as a favour because you’ve got nothing and no one without him. He doesn’t want you there._ His mind was attacking him now and trying to undermine the few thoughts he was using as a foundation to live in this world. His life was working at the lab with Walt and coming home to the Hellhole he currently lay in. If Walt didn’t want him around then he there would be no one left in his life.

 

Over the last few days he felt the meaning slipping out of everything around him. Watching his house decay before his eyes was merely a fascination and each bit of damage was like a tick of the second hand on a clock, time passing slowly. Manipulating his guests had been too easy; everyone was desperate for money or drugs, or both. He stopped launching money over the leftover partiers after only a couple days. Each scramble ended the same with satiated junkies eyeing him like puppies. Every night there was crystal to burn, video games to play and girls to screw, and with every night that passed, he was building a tolerance to it all. Now, it was like he felt nothing at all: no desire, no need…no fear, just a sadness that felt endless.

 

 _Walt didn’t even let you shower in his house when you were blue and covered in shit: that’s how little he cares about you_. He remembered Walt making him a big plate of eggs and bacon that morning, but it wasn’t enough to silence his inner monologue. The thoughts kept crashing in against the nothingness. It was like splashes of vitriol against a blank canvas; there was nothing else present to compete. _You nearly killed Mr. White and yourself in the desert by leaving the keys in the ignition_. _You’re stupid, like actually really dumb. You should be embarrassed_. It was starting to feel like being stabbed in the heart and his breath was becoming ragged. _You seduced Andrea just to get her hooked on your meth. You’re disgusting_. He clutched the gun against his chest and tried to keep his eyes closed, but his eyes kept dashing open wide. _No one loves you. And you’re a murderer. No one could ever possibly love you again, not even Jane_. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and he was pressing the gun against himself like it was standing in for a teddy bear. _Andrea’s brother is dead because of you_.

 

“Fuck,” he said as he sat up, trying to wipe the tears off of his face with the gun still in hand. He was losing the battle against himself quickly. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this,” he was repeating as he teetered on the edge of the futon.

 

Was there someone he could call, he wondered. Badger and Skinny Pete had walked out on him days ago and his fragile ego couldn’t bear begging them to come back. There was no one else, he thought in despair. The only other person he spoke to was Walt and he had thoroughly convinced himself Walt could care less about his fate. _If you call Walt, he’ll just yell at you. He’ll ask you why you dared call him. Face it, you have no one._ Jesse was sobbing and whining now as he pressed his hands hard against his temples. _Mom and Dad hate your guts. May as well kill yourself now and do everyone a big favour_.

 

“No…” he whimpered aloud. He’d be lying to himself if he said the thought hadn’t plagued him over the last week as the house became increasingly bleak. He had sat in the corner behind a speaker in his living room for a few hours one early morning as the sun rose. He watched the people around him go from aggressively high to passed out at his feet, and his indifference had scared him. He wondered then if it mattered whether he wasted away in that room just like the ghoulish bodies strewn before him. The crystal had been racing his thoughts and suddenly he was debating which drug would be ideal for an overdose. He had even contemplated overdosing on heroin so that he could die similarly to Jane, but quickly changed his mind. If he was going to end it he wanted to be ripped apart; he wanted to feel his blood spilling out and his body failing him. He wanted to struggle for his last breath and feel the pain of his chest seizing as his heart stopped. _It’s time to be with Jane_.

 

Jesse looked down at the gun and glided a hand over the tiny barrel a few times as choked sobs rattled out. _Pull the trigger and you’ll be hopping clouds with Jane in mere seconds. She’s waiting for you_. A vision of Jane in nothing but her long, flowing black hair enchanted his mind. He started to feel seduced by the metal and he took it, finger against trigger, and pointed it against his temple. He’d never felt the sensation of the barrel’s end squarely against his temple. It was small and cold and he sat for a minute breathing in and out through a tremble. _Who will find your body? Will it be Mike? He thinks you’re a piece of shit and will melt you down within a couple hours. It will be like you never existed_. His stomach turned in a heavy lurch and at once he lowered the gun from his temple. The thought of being dissolved in a barrel down in the lab sickened him and he nearly gagged. He stared at the gun in his hands through tears when a familiar voice started speaking. _I’m here Jesse…you gotta get here. It’s incredible. It will only hurt for a minute and then you’ll be here_. It was Jane.

 

Jesse was breathing in sharp, shallow bursts in between cries. Jane’s voice was so vivid he was convinced it was her speaking to him from the other side. He was terrified but he now found the thread he was searching for. _I miss you so much. Come to me_. He regained his grip on the .38 and tried angling it up behind his chin between his jawbones. He meditated on the carnage for a moment imagining his face being ripped off. He hoped it would be quick and if he left behind a gruesome scene, all the better. There was somewhere he needed to be now and someone important to meet. As he sat working up the courage to pull the trigger, he didn’t notice Mike was perched over the room from the railing above his stereo.

 

Mike had both hands down on the wrought iron but was staying deadly silent.

He was watching Jesse with the kind of aggravation he showed hints of at the scene of Jane’s death. In truth, he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him: the kid had a tiny gun pressed up against his jaw and was crying enough tears to flood the Nile. For the last five minutes he expected him to pull the trigger, but it seemed like the kid didn’t have it in him so Mike had resigned to wait out this private tantrum, at least until he was noticed. He showed up to carry out a welfare check Gus insisted on after the incident of the stolen money a few days ago. Jesse had never been present or appropriately lucid to notice these visits were happening. Mike would come in quietly and survey the damage. He was looking for dead bodies, drugs that could kill _en masse_ and signs of theft. So far, nothing that dire had happened but he had witnessed lewd behaviour he couldn’t un-see. Positively the last thing he ever expected or wanted to see was Jesse with his Maypole in another man’s mouth, seemingly unaware of where he had stuck it.

 

Mike shifted and folded his arms. Jesse was back to crying into his hands with the gun dangling from his right hand. He couldn’t help but think things would be a Hell of a lot simpler for everyone if the kid would just pull the trigger. It’s not that he wanted him dead, but he was this gaping eye-sore of a liability to Gus and everyone on Gus’s team, which included himself. Jesse was so reckless and unpredictable, it seemed inevitable he’d get a good number of people killed or, worse yet, get them given up to the cops. _I didn’t work this long and hard to get ratted out by a sniveling child. Look at him; he’s an absolute disgrace_. _If he was my son I’d rip that gun out of his hand and whip him one with it_ … _If he was my son, he’d already be dead_. Mike’s mind flew to his son Matt and that deep pain he carried with him lurched around in the recesses of his chest. It never really went away, but certain things stirred it to an unbearable level.

 

Suddenly, Jesse had the gun out in front of himself with the barrel turned toward him. He wiped his nose with his left hand before it joined the right in clamping onto the .38 with a thumb against the trigger. He closed his eyes and lowered his jaw, sliding the gun in. Mike could hear him whimper for a moment before going silent.

 

“Ah, shit,” Mike said aloud as he began to stir on the balcony. Jesse’s eyes went wide as he noticed Mike, but he didn’t move. His expression didn’t change and he just held the gun where it was, mouth wide.

 

Something clicked inside of Mike and he realized he couldn’t watch the kid blow his brains out against the curtains. The sound of the gun going off would attract concerned denizens in an upscale area like this, he thought, and he didn’t want to be seen by anyone. And, deep down, Mike didn’t want this on his conscience, as much as an annoyance Jesse had been to him. It would be another thing he couldn’t un-see and adding to that pit of pain was that last thing he wanted. He hurried down the steps and rounded into the living room until he was couple feet from Jesse.

 

“Take that gun outta your mouth, now. Do not make me say it twice.” He was as stern and threatening as ever.

 

Jesse closed his eyes forcing tears down his face. He adjusted his grip on the gun but didn’t budge.

 

“Hey, you listening to me?” Mike was yelling now. “Get that shit outta your mouth!” Within an instant, Mike lunged forward and clenched the gun prying it violently from Jesse’s mouth. Relieved to have the gun in his hands, Mike stood for a moment looking down on the kid. He was in a sorry state: eyes wide as a raccoon and covered in sweat. Just as he was about to speak, Jesse jumped up and tore away from the futon. Mike sprang an arm out and managed to yank him backward. He spun out of his grip quickly and backed away a few feet.

 

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Mike’s voice was low and dry.

 

“The john,” Jesse spat out. He barely met Mike’s eyes before running out of the room. Mike could hear him pounding up the stairs to the second floor and he sighed, tucking the gun into an inside jacket pocket. Maybe the kid was embarrassed, he thought, and he needed to get himself together before coming back downstairs. He looked around at the garbage and filth covering every inch of the room and winced. He didn’t want to sit down in this dump and so reluctantly, he shuffled bits off the futon and sat uncomfortably on the edge to ponder the next move. There were a few options as he saw it: case the house for weapons before putting the kid to bed in order to sleep whatever he was on _off_ all the while playing babysitter, bring him home to dry out for the night, which he wasn’t keen on doing any way he looked at it. Or, in what was likely the most sensible approach, arrange for him to be taken to the ER so someone with some sense could see to him. Mike couldn’t help but think that if it were his son, he’d already have him in the car. With a groan he rose to his feet again, his knees paining him on the way up. He looked toward the stairwell and shook his head. As hassled as he was feeling by the entire situation, he couldn’t leave Jesse up there falling to pieces on his own. The kid was hypersensitive, sure, and maybe he was a bit too old to think of as a kid, but Mike couldn’t help it. His time on the force saw him brush up with a few lost individuals who reminded him of Jesse. They were the hopelessly lonesome ones with no viable future and a past they could never forget. It was depressing to recall, but their situations rarely improved. They’d end up at the morgue before they ever got clean, ever really had a chance to live in this world.

 

Mike trudged up the stairs slowly, sighing the whole way up, partly in aggravation and partly at the exertion. The fleeting thought of retirement ran through his head and he shook it away. It ain’t over yet, he thought. He made his way down the hall to the family bathroom and found the door locked. He rapped on the door with little force and called out for Jesse. There was no answer and not a sound piercing through the wooden door. He struck the door harder and began, “Jesse! Open up. Come on, now.”

 

Still nothing and he continued, “Look, if you’re embarrassed or upset, whatever – it doesn’t matter, alright. I’ve seen it all before.” Silence. “I used to be a cop, you know that? I – I got some training in these types of deals. We need to just talk a bit, man to man, and you’ll start feeling better.” The right words were coming back to him from those days long ago, but he was getting suspicious. Jesse was too quiet; he should be hearing some sniffles at the very least. Mike was surveying the door and planning how he was going to open it. Settling on picking the lock, he said, “I’m coming in, so you better not be on the shitter.”

 

With ease he unlocked the bathroom door and pushed it open. A vision of Jesse propped up under the far window drenched in blood filled his eye line. “Christ alive!” Mike exclaimed as he hurried in. He leaned over Jesse and grabbed his face to look into this eyes. “What’ve you done now, huh? What’ve you done?” He grabbed Jesse’s arms and saw that he’d only slashed one wide open. It wouldn’t kill him if he acted fast but Jesse already seemed delirious from blood loss. He grabbed a towel and twisted it tightly around the kid’s arm, so tight it eked a squeal from Jesse.

 

“That woke you up, didn’t it,” Mike puffed in and out to catch his breath. It was an unsettling sight, even for someone who had seen as much as Mike. The blood spilling out of Jesse’s arm made his stomach a bit queasy and the bloodied straight razor strewn to his side looked sinister. It alarmed him to see Jesse so woozy and barely able to speak. His eyes were glazed over and beginning to dull and it stirred the vision of his son that haunted him. Ever since Matt’s death, a disturbing image of his body riddled with bullets would flash up in the fore of his mind, tormenting him. The vividness of the image always disturbed him and seeing Jesse slumped against the wall in a pool of his own blood crawled under Mike’s skin. He forgot about the kid’s brash and aggravating behaviour and could only see a young man slipping away from life in front of him. Mike grabbed his face with a hand and shook it with force. “Hey, hey! Don’t even think about closing your eyes, you got that?!” His voice was booming and he slapped him hard across the face in order to keep him lucid.

 

“Lemme…lemme go,” Jesse muttered as his head rolled languidly against the wall.

 

“Not a chance,” Mike returned with sincerity. He took out his cellphone and flipped it open to dial. The blood was seeping through the towel already and so Mike wasted no time.

 

“Caldera? Yeah, Mike. I got an urgent situation. It pays large if you can get here in ten minutes…yeah, yep. Like I said, it pays large…ok it’s 9809 Margo Street.”

 

Mike threw his phone on the floor and grabbed Jesse’s arm to compress it. Looking into his eyes he said, “Just hold on, kid. Hold on. It ain’t your time.”

 

*

 

It was nearly pitch black outside as Caldera finally left. Mike’s trusty vet had pocketed a cool ten grand for his quick work and Jesse now had a nasty patch of black stitching lacing up his left arm. Jesse had stayed quiet as a mouse as the needle weaved in and out and Mike guessed it was adrenaline numbing him. It was just the two of them in the bathroom now and he was still sitting on the bathroom floor stunned. Mike refused all painkillers from Caldera and so he was convinced the agony of his wound would eventually sober Jesse up, but he was still waiting for it to happen. He managed to remove some of blood staining his chest with wet wipes he found in a bathroom drawer, but the kid remained a mess. He was still sitting in his own blood on the floor.

 

“You need to get up and put some clean clothes on,” Mike stated, unconvinced Jesse would listen. “Or, bed’s a good idea, it’s been a long day.”

 

Jesse barely stirred as he stared forward. His mind was empty except for echoes of Jane’s voice. ‘ _I miss you…I miss you_ ’ was repeating over and over again.

 

Mike stood in front of him and a leaned a hand down to grasp the side of his head. “Anybody home in there?” He was trying a soft approach before resorting to his usual tactics.

 

Jesse rolled his head into Mike’s hand and then looked back at him, blinking slowly. It was incredibly unsettling to Mike. He kept his gaze with Jesse hoping he’d speak. Finally, a soft voice broke the silence.  “I want to be with Jane.”

 

Mike was floored and his mind threw up an image of Jane’s body from that morning. His heart broke a bit and he felt truly sorry for him in that moment. “Is she why you did this Jesse?”

 

His head moved back out of Mike’s touch and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t be here anymore and she told me to come.”

 

Mike’s sympathy quickly morphed into pity and worry. Jesse seemed to have broken with reality and he wasn’t prepared to deal with this. He decided the best thing to do was put him in bed and let the kid sleep it off. Mike leaned in and grasped him under the arms, “Okay, here we go.” He raised him and steadied him on his feet before taking an arm over his shoulder to start walking forward. They slowly hobbled out of the bathroom and down the hallway to Jesse’s bedroom. As they neared the bed, Jesse was walking on his own. He grabbed the sheet and duvet and slid under both without a glance to Mike. He buried himself until he was barely visible. Suddenly, Jesse rolled to his back and looked to Mike, eyes glistening.

 

“I’m…a murderer.”

 

Mike sighed, but sensed there was another layer to the evening’s drama. Jesse had been acting out for days and his initial assumption had been that it was induced by guilt, grief and the frustration of overwhelming remorse. He was hardened to this lifestyle, but Jesse wasn’t. Hell, he wasn’t sure the kid was capable of hardening. Regardless, he did his best to placate him knowing it wouldn’t be effective. “Death is a part of this game, Jesse, you know that. Sometimes, it’s either you or him. Now, I’m not saying you and Walter were right to do what you did, but you guys made your choice, you gotta live with it.”

 

“It didn’t feel like… a choice.”

 

“Sure it was, kid. Don’t fool yourself. Life is all choices.” Mike stood by the bed with arms folded.

 

Jesse looked at him with wide, saucer eyes. “I just need to feel _good again_ …when am I going to feel good again?” He looked up to Mike plaintively.

 

Mike very nearly grinned as he shook his head. “Kid, I don’t know. I’m still waitin’ to feel good again.”

 

Remembering Jesse’s admission earlier about hearing Jane speak to him, he shifted on his feet and prepared to offer him the most responsible option for moving forward. Being sensitive didn’t come naturally to Mike, but he buoyed himself to spit out the line. “Listen, do you want me to arrange for you to go to the hospital?” He looked expectantly at Jesse who returned only a quizzical look.

 

“Why? Your guy already stitched me up.”

 

“No, I mean…for your head.” He gestured a twisty-turning motion near his temple.

 

Jesse ruffled the duvet and averted the old man’s gaze. He couldn’t quite put together an answer.

 

“I can’t leave you here on your own…and I’m not sitting around in this shithole you call home all night,” Mike tutted. “I can’t have you getting blood all over my house, either.” He saw a distinct wave of sadness wash over Jesse and realized he still needed to watch his words.

 

“I didn’t mean – Hell. Here’s your options: I arrange for you to go to the hospital where they’ll give you a nice, clean room and some head docs will rummage through your noggin for a week.” He could see Jesse wasn’t liking this offer, and he continued, “Or, you stay here and put up with babysitters.”

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

“Of course you’re not.” He rolled his eyes as he went to exit the washroom. “I gotta make a call. Just – try and sleep, or something.”

 

Mike’s version of sensitivity in crisis was yielding mixed results but he was doing the best he could manage. He flipped open his phone to dial. He knew he should be calling Gus, but he also knew exactly what Gus would say: setup a stay at a private mental health center. For Gus, this would be an opportunity to build up Jesse’s cover as a hapless addict suffering ill mental health. Gus would take measures to ensure he didn’t roll, but he’d encourage a long stay and Mike just didn’t want to drop Jesse into that against his will. He gave Jesse a choice, and the kid made his choice. Mike was going to honour it, even if it meant calling his least favourite person: Walt. The phone rang out and a harried voice answered. “What do you want?”

 

“Get over to Jesse’s. Now.” Mike wasn’t about to give him a choice.

 

“What? What is it? I’ve got, I’ve got family…obligations I can’t just run out on.”

 

“Walter, do as I say.”

 

“That’s not good enough. I need a bigger reason than that to desert my family for the evening.” He was speaking quickly in a hushed voice.

 

“Walter, this is serious. Don’t try me. Get over here.”

 

“…Fine.” Mike heard the phone slam down on the other end and tore his phone away from his ear.

 

*

 

Jesse was weaving in and out of sleep. One moment he was with Jane in complete contentedness, the next he was clutching his duvet as his left arm seared in pain. He knew what he had done, he wasn’t disregarding it or denying it, but he just desperately wanted to stay in dreamland. It was safe there and there were no questions. Before he nodded off, Mike had tried to prod him again for other reasons. He dodged as many of the questions as he could and exaggerated his sleepiness. He pried his eyes open for a minute as he heard a rustling by the door. Suddenly, a voice broke in.

 

“Can I…come in?”

 

Jesse was startled to hear Walt’s voice. What the Hell was he doing here, he thought as he stared into the dark door frame. Slowly Walt came to light as he ventured further into the room.

 

“Mike called me, he’s gotta go, you see. He just thought someone should…be around.”

 

Jesse said nothing as embarrassment rubbed up against resentment toward Mike for calling Mr. White. Gingerly, the man sat near him on the bed. “What happened?”

 

He didn’t want to answer but he knew Walt’s nature. It would be easier to give him something and hope he buys it. “I was messed up and got overwhelmed. Everything is fine now.” With every word he buried his head further into his pillows.

 

“He said you had a gun in your mouth, Jesse. Everything is not fine, I would say.” There was a slightest hint of emotion in Walt’s response, which Jesse found unbelievable.

 

“Don’t pretend to care now,” Jesse said with a sigh. Not thinking, he shifted on the bed and stretched out his left arm replete with dark stitches. They caught in Walt’s eyes immediately. The stitches were grotesque and made clear how deep Jesse had wounded himself. Dried stains of blood were mottled across his arm. Jesse suddenly became aware of him staring at it and glided a finger over its ridges and bumps. “It’s bad, I know, but it felt kinda good at the time.”

 

“Jesse…” Walt put his head in hands, trying to cover a few tears that escaped.

 

For some reason, he felt himself opening up a bit. Perhaps it was the honesty of his mutilated arm setting the tone, but Jesse felt his thoughts pouring from his mouth. “Sometimes when I try to remember Jane, and us together, all I can feel is how cold her body was that morning. I try to feel us kissing and her lips are ice cold. Or, the memory will start okay but then she goes all blue and cold in my arms,” Jesse broke off to sniffle. Walt was looking down at his lap while he listened.

 

“Things are not really working out for me, you know? Things are getting darker and less hopeful the more money we make. Isn’t it supposed to be the opposite?” He paused and coughed, dehydrated from the day’s tears and loss of blood.

 

“Things are…difficult, you’re right,” Walt conceded.

 

“I just want to be a regular guy now. Fuck the money, and the drugs. I want like, a workplace that’s normal. A place where I can stroll in and be like, hi, how are you, did you have a nice weekend? And then maybe someone would ask me if I had a nice weekend. And there’d be coffee from a coffee pot, not from a weird ass contraption made by a guy I killed. And like, if it was a normal workplace I could go in and just do my job and get good at it, you know, and I’d have a boss who’d say, you’re doing great job, Jesse. Keep up the good work.” Hurt was inching across every part of Walt’s face. “I can’t keep going on like this. There’s not enough here for me to stay.”

 

Walt’s tears were falling rapidly, “We can change things, things at the lab. It can be better for you. We can get rid of Gale’s coffee maker.”

 

The words did little for Jesse and as tears began to fill his eyes, he said “I just want to be with Jane now.”

 

The lump in Walt’s throat nearly choked him as he was overwhelmed with guilt and sadness. He leaned forward to embrace Jesse and took his head to his shoulder. “It’s not time for that yet, okay? It’s not time yet.” He was rubbing his back and holding his head to his shoulder.

 

Mike stood in the doorway quietly again going unnoticed. He overheard the majority of their exchange and was skeptical. _Walt could really turn it on when he wanted to with Jesse, that poor bastard_. _He doesn’t stand a chance partnered with this lunatic._ He turned from the frame and began slowly descending the stairs, his knees complaining with every step. _It ain’t over_.


End file.
